


breathe me

by juliabaccari



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-23
Updated: 2014-01-23
Packaged: 2018-01-09 18:26:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1149336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juliabaccari/pseuds/juliabaccari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras has a panic attack after a rally turned riot goings terribly wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	breathe me

**Author's Note:**

> Again prompted by my own Apollo, Caitlyn.

> he
> 
> can’t
> 
> see
> 
>  
> 
> His eyes are open but his vision is a just shades of black and red that form monstrous shadows. It is a nightmare, but Enjolras is awake. His hands fly out, grasping for anything steady, and he feels them close around someone’s arm. Enjolras knows, physically, that they are at the Musain. They are safe. But his brain cannot process this because –
> 
>  
> 
> the riot
> 
> gunshots
> 
> _red_
> 
> not like his coat but a sick, dark red, red as blood –
> 
>  
> 
> Enjolras blinks, but the motion feels sticky, slow. There is blood in his eyes. Joly’s face swims into view like a ship breaking through a fog. The young med student is pressing a cloth to his face. Enjolras tries, weakly, to push him away.
> 
>  
> 
> “There are others who need you –“ He chokes out. His throat feels like sandpaper, and his usually clear voice sounds cracked and rough. Joly frowns at him, shakes his head, and continues attempting to clean the blood from Enjolras’s forehead. Enjolras cannot take it, does not want this attention; he stands and attempts to back away. He nearly careens into the wall, crashing through the chair he’s just vacated. There is a shout of concern but he doesn’t care. He can’t breathe. Why can’t he  _breathe_? He can’t make his limbs or lungs obey him and he’s never felt more out of control, more terrified.

> He remembers -
> 
>  
> 
> the gunshots
> 
>  
> 
> someone
> 
> is
> 
> _hurt_
> 
>  
> 
> and it’s his fault
> 
>  
> 
> He falls to heavily his knees, ignoring the awful sounding thud and the crack of pain that ripples up his legs. Enjolras looks up, searches for his friends in the crowd, and his heart clenches with a strange selfishness every time he sees one of them – Courfeyrac, with his arm around a trembling Jehan – Eponine wrapping a bandage around Marius’s arm with a grim face, while Cossette stands like a golden sentinel over the pair – Muschietta, laying out first aid supplies with Bossuet – Combeferre, steady as a statue, directing everyone. They’re here. They’re all here, except for –
> 
>  
> 
> “Grantaire. Where is Grantaire?” Enjolras grabs Joly’s arm with an abrupt ferocity, startling the poor man. His eyes are sharp for a moment, but as he watches the other man’s face fall, the panic sets in again. Faintly he feels Joly catch him before he falls fully to the floor, but it doesn’t matter. He’s going to suffocate right here, be it on the ground or sitting up. He knows it, he’s going to die, and as well he should. Enjolras has killed Grantaire. Grantaire, who never believed in the things they did, who thought they were all fools – who was only here because of  _Enjolras._ Which means it is his fault. And God, he never told Grantaire how much he appreciated him because the man challenged him to be  _better._ Through pure irritating cynicism Grantaire taught him to make his arguments flawless even the most critical eye, to try that much harder. But he probably died thinking Enjolras hated him and thought he was worthless, and he died for  _Enjolras’s_ cause.
> 
>  
> 
> All this flies through his brain in a panicked rush. His throat closes and he wants to curl into himself and sob but he can’t, he doesn’t have the air for it. His vision begins to blacken again but he thinks this might be a welcome relief, wonders if he should stop fighting the darkness. Then the door of the Musain bangs open. It barely pierces the buzzing into Enjolras’s ears, but someone forces him upright and –
> 
>  
> 
> There is Grantaire, looking wild and flushed, framed in the doorway. His dark curls are in even more disarray than usual. His clothing is disheveled and torn, and there is blood on his sleeve and dirt on his cheeks. But he looks – like a hero. The sun streams in behind him and, hysterically, Enjolras wonders if they have somehow traded places and Grantaire has become the sun god, come to see him off to death.
> 
>  
> 
> The moment Enjolras locks eyes with him he knows he is wrong about that. Grantaire is wearing the same expression he always looks at Enjolras with, but he shouldn’t be, he shouldn’t look at him like that.The pure worship, the trust - Enjolras does not deserve to be looked at like that any more. Grantaire still expects him to be a god, or a leader at least, but he  _isn’t_. He’s just a fool. He’s a stubborn and reckless child and he’s going to get them all killed. His friends are going to die simply for the misfortune of believing in him. And Grantaire – he’s the worst of them all that way. He has no stock in Enjolras’s cause, only Enjolras himself. There’s a man in Grantaire’s head who Enjolras used to be. He is like a storybook hero: the golden leader in the red coat. And he is Grantaire’s only cause, the only thing he has any faith in.
> 
>  
> 
> How can he ever deserve that type of devotion?
> 
>  
> 
> His body is convulsing now with the desperate desire to draw in more air, but all he can get in are little gasps, and suddenly Grantaire is across the room and his hands are on Enjolras’s face.
> 
>  
> 
> “What happened?” He hears the brunet demand, uncharacteristically fierce, “What  _happened to him?_ ”
> 
>  
> 
> “It’s a panic attack – ” Joly supplies, but as Enjolras grips Grantaire’s arms desperately, the man’s attention centers back to him with complete focus.
> 
>  
> 
> “I thought –” Enjolras manages to choke out. Grantaire’s eyes go wide.
> 
>  
> 
> i thought you were dead
> 
> i thought
> 
> you died
> 
> for me
> 
>  
> 
> “I’m right here.” Grantaire says, forcing Enjolras to stay with him, to look in his eyes. “I’m here. _Enjolras_. I’m okay.”
> 
>  
> 
> The air hits him like a punch in the gut when it finally comes, and he falls forward into Grantaire, lets the other man draw him into his arms. Enjolras sobs, freely and helplessly, into the crook of Grantaire’s neck. He has never felt so weak. He has never  _been_ so weak. But somehow Grantaire is still here. Though Enjolras has proved himself no more than a human to the man who once worshipped at his altar, Grantaire has not thrown him away in disgust. It is more than he ever thought he could ask from the cynic.
> 
>  
> 
> But he never should have doubted. Grantaire, more than anyone, would understand how to have faith in a broken man.
> 
>  
> 
> He cries for what feels like an hour. He empties himself, all that he is and all of the things crumbling down within him, into Grantaire’s waiting arms. When he finally surfaces the Musain is much quieter. Their friends are still there – just the core Les Amis now – but they are all talking in low voices, huddled together in small groups here and there. Some are bandaged and all are dirtied and disheveled, but they look…peaceful. They look like a family. Enjolras breathes a sigh of relief.
> 
>  
> 
> “I’m sorry.” He whispers, his fingers curling around Grantaire’s collar, and for some reason he needs to stay close. He needs to keep touching the other man. Something about Grantaire is grounding him, which seems ironic, since nothing grounds Grantaire but Enjolras. He looks up and meets bright blue eyes. The expression in them is a softer one than he imagined Grantaire would ever wear, they look more like a watercolor painting than a reality, and he is not sure what to call that emotion. It is not idolatry, or admiration, or passion. It is vastly more complicated and yet the word for it is so simple, on the tip of Enjolras’s tongue –
> 
>  
> 
> “You stupid man." Grantaire says, smiling. “What do you have to apologize for?”
> 
>  
> 
> “I nearly got you killed – I nearly got everyone killed!” Enjolras says in a rush, and Grantaire shakes his head, that smile still curling his lips.
> 
>  
> 
> “No. You got me thrown in jail, but that was actually quite a bit of fun. I should tell you about my cellmate. Of course, my parents will never leave me alone now about the bail money, but it was worth it.” Grantaire’s grin nearly knocks him over with its brightness. “For you.”
> 
>  
> 
> “No, don’t, don’t –” Enjolras feels his lungs constrict again, and the smile drops from Grantaire’s face.
> 
>  
> 
> “Hey – it’s okay –” Grantaire says quickly, his hands running through Enjolras’s hair, calming him.
> 
>  
> 
> “I’m not a god, Grantaire, I don’t want you to sacrifice yourself for me.” Enjolras says firmly.
> 
>  
> 
> “Oh, I wouldn’t do that.” The brunet assures him. “I would miss the opportunity to annoy you every day.”
> 
>  
> 
> Enjolras lets out a broken laugh. “Grantaire –”
> 
>  
> 
> “I wouldn’t mind, however, a little reward for my good revolutionary behavior.”
> 
>  
> 
> It’s so ridiculous, so inappropriate, so Grantaire that it makes Enjolras pause. As he lifts an eyebrow, he begins to feel a little more like himself.
> 
>  
> 
> “R, the whole point of this is that we do not do it for a  _reward._ ” He says, but seeing as he’s still tangled up in the other man’s arms, he relents. “But just this once. What is it you want?”
> 
>  
> 
> “Well. How about a kiss?”
> 
>  


End file.
